Jeeves the Joker
by SherlockianGirl
Summary: When Jeeves is drugged and Aunt Dahlia's silver is stolen, Bertie is left to deal with a loony valet and the distinct possibility of aunt-like retribution.


There are days when I find myself straining the old bean in an attempt to figure out why in heaven's name people put me in charge of their problems. A dashed inconvenience they sometimes turn out to be and usually end in self being stuck in a sticky posish with authorities, rogue aunts and whatnot. I suppose if it weren't for the cool-headed workings of Jeeves, Bertram would be forever bound to suffer the slings and somethings of outrageous something. I have often wondered what would befall me lest that level head of his take a tumble into the depths of looniness and on one occasion I had the bally ghost scared out of me when it did. The stuff of nightmares that day was.

Aunt Dahlia had popped in for a spellish, but only to load my flat up with a bit of silver she had purchased in secret for Uncle Tom. She was off for a bit of holiday, but would be back to pick up the things before returning to Brinkley Court. I hardly bothered to look in on the bag of loot-probably just a lot of blasted ancient cow creamers wrought in gold that had been found at the bottom of the Nile or whatnot. Or she had pinched them from the British Museum with a triumphant cry of "Yoicks!" whilst knocking the stuffing out of the security guards on her way out. No matter. I handed the bag over to Jeeves without another thought and let it slip the mind. I would complain of it later to Barmy or some other sympathetic chap at the Drones.

Lunch at the club went corking as usual, until Barmy beetled up with a fellow new to our revered establishment.

"Hallo, Barmy," I said, sipping a w. and s. "Who's this?"

"Hullo, Bertie. This here's Wilkie Farmsbright, our newest Drone. He's been most anxious to meet you. Wilkie, this is our famed Bertie Wooster, the one I've been telling you all about."

"An absolute pleasure, Bertie!" the man was positively popping about. "A pleasure!"

"What ho, Wilkie," I returned cordially, exchanging a shaking of the hand. "A proper Drone now, are you?"

"Indeed I am!"

"Well, you must come round to lunch tomorrow at my flat then, what? Give you the old chummy welcome."

"Splendid, Bertie! I'd be delighted."

Dratted awful thing, had I known it then. And so the next day dawned bright and unsuspecting upon an occasion which even Mr. Sun would have shuddered to beam his bright peepers on.

Jeeves answered the ring at the door, and I saw his face contort slightly at the sight of Wilkie Farmsbright before letting him in. I sent the new chappie off to explore the flat and turned on the valet.

"Steady on, Jeeves!"

"Sir?"

"I will not have you making such silly faces at my guest, Jeeves."

"Very good, sir."

"You are not a clown, Jeeves."

"Quite true, sir."

"You would make a dashed frightful clown, Jeeves."

"Yes, sir."

"The stuff of clowny nightmares."

"Quite right, sir."

"Now, then. You disapprove of this fellow?"

"It has come to my attention, sir, that the man in question is not the proper-"

I scoffed. "'Course he's proper, Jeeves! He's a Drone, isn't he?"

Jeeves blinked. "Yes…sir."

"Right ho. Now, toddle off and clean up the flat a bit, will you? Guests visiting and all that."

In a blip he was gone. I then set about finding where the little putzing Drone had gotten to, but the blighter was nowhere to be found. I had just checked the kitchen for the third time when I heard two doors slam, the last one being the front door. I popped my head out of the kitchen with an inquisitive "Hullo there, what?" but received no answer. Silence in the Wooster residence, and all that.

That is, until I heard the rummiest sound my ears had ever clapped hold of. It sounded like a sort of deep-throated laugh coming from the far end of the flat. I followed the noisy chortling up to the door of Jeeves's room.

"Jeeves?" I opened the door and felt the jaw hit the floor. "_Jeeves_? What the devil is going on?_"_

And there he was, spinning around in his favorite swivel-reading chair, grinning like a bally loon. "Gooood…ahem, good afternoon, sir."

"What is so blasted funny, Jeeves?"

He made a sound very much like "Humphmfff", which I suppose was his way of stifling another laugh. Either that or he liked making noises whilst burying his face in a chair pillow.

Laughter is something I didn't believe Jeeves was capable of. I had always figured he would violently explode into perfect little Jeeves-bits if he so much as uttered a chuckle. Not a pretty thing, mind you. I did not wish to sweep Jeeves up with a broom and dustpan.

I frowned. "That fellow, Wilkie Farmsbright. Where is he?"

Jeeves snorted, then immediately bit his pillow with something of an apologetic look. "Um…ahem…he left the premises, sir."

"Left the premises!"

Jeeves's mouth twitched back into a goofy smile. "Yes, sir. He bally well legged it out of here, dash it all!"

I stared at the man. "Have you gone _mad, _Jeeves?"

"Quite possibly, sir, dash it all."

"Stop saying that!" I ran a hand over the old map. This whole situation was getting rummier by the minute. What in heaven's name had happened to the man?

"What in heaven's name has happened to you, Jeeves?" I blurted out.

"I don't like this pillow, Mr. Wooster. It reminds me of a stuffed cat."

"_Jeeves_!"

"Yeeeeees?" he drawled. "Sir?" he then added quickly, going for another spin in the chair.

"_What the bloody hell is wrong with you_?"

"Dash it all," he added.

"_Dash it all_!"

"Mr. Farmsbutternut sprayed a very concentrated substance near me, don't you know. Sir."

"Sprayed something near you? Why, you're talking through your hat, Jeeves!"

"This is a pillow, Mr. Wooster, not a hat."

"It's a figure of speech, Jeeves. I know that that is a pillow-"

"That reminds me of a stuffed cat, sir."

"Yes, I know, Jeeves."

"Blasted ugly thing, sir."

I blinked, as if in a daze. My valet had gone completely off his rocker, onto someone else's, and fallen off of that one as well.

"What do you mean, sprayed something near you, Jeeves?"

Jeeves had now propped his legs up on a nearby coffee table with a grin. "I believe some people call it nitrous oxide, if I'm not mistaken, sir." He snickered, as if finding the whole thing a joke. "At least, by judging its effects on the human br-"

"What, laughing gas?" I shouted incredulously, if that's the word I want.

"Wah-hey!" added Jeeves.

"Wilkie Farmsbright _drugged you, _Jeeves?"

"I think he was after the silver, what ho, sir."

"What? 'What ho', Jeeves?"

"What ho, Mr. Wooster."

"Stop using my blasted phrases, Jeeves!"

"Right ho, sir."

"Where are you going?" I stared after him, wide-eyed. Jeeves had up and toddled out of the room in a fit of laughter. A moment later, I heard him banging away at the piano. I caught a few strains of "Minnie the Moocher", as a matter of fact. I sent up a prayer for my poor piano.

I sat for a long mom. in deep thought, such as the Woosters are known for. In such a hopeless situation as this, I would have simply rung for Jeeves and left the problem in his capable hands. However, considering that that very embodiment of sanity and wisdom was at this moment biffing my rubber ducky about the flat with a golf club, the option did not seem a probable one. I had heard of this nitrous oxide stuff as being used as a medical sedative of sorts-in the case of Jeeves, it seemed to have the opposite effect. Even worse, I had just earned myself a good yell-to from Aunt Dahlia for losing that blasted silver. Of all the bally things that could happen to a chap in one day.

I beetled off to the sitting room and found Jeeves reading his Spinoza whilst giggling. I raised the eyebrows. I had no idea that philosopher chap was such a boon to the humor-writing community.

I decided to put it to the fellow straight. "Do you realize that that scum Wilkie Farmsbright made off with Aunt Dahlia's silver, Jeeves?"

He put the book down and stretched. "The thought did occur to me, sir. Dum dee doo dee doo dee dah."

"Stop singing, Jeeves."

"Righty right ho, sir."

I sighed. "Do you realize what Aunt Dahlia will do to me because of all this rot?"

Jeeves looked thoughtful, as if he were staring into the depths of the future to at once envisage the various possibilities of what could happen to Bertram Wooster and perhaps form a brilliant plan to evade them. He looked back at me. "Not the foggiest, sir."

"Murder comes to mind, Jeeves."

"Most disturbing and all that, sir."

"Jeeves! That silver is _gone!_"

"Gone, sir? Where?" Jeeves's eyes widened as his gaze darted about the flat.

My patience was getting a bit thin. "With that blighter, Wilkie!" I thundered.

"Oh, no, sir. He made off with a bag of your clothes," Jeeves replied with a smuggish smile, if that's a word.

The Wooster brain can only take so much, and this was almost the last gasp for the old gray matter. "What?"

Jeeves sat up and crossed his arms. "I had divined, sir, that your new Drone, as you called him, was in fact the well-known silver thief, Crafty B. Collins, and so made the appropriate arrangements yesterday, and what all."

I shook my head. "The appropriate arrangements, Jeeves?"

He rolled his eyes, as if it were an obvious fact. "I locked the silver up before Wilkie Whatsit arrived, sir, and then, when he pulled out the expected gun, I led him to believe that a bag of rocks I had wrapped in your clothes was indeed a bag of carefully wrapped silver pieces. He then sprayed the gas in an effort to deter my pursuit and was soon on his way, sir."

"So Wilkie is off somewhere with a bally bunch of rocks, eh?" I asked, brightening considerably.

"Precisely, sir."

I started. "Jeeves, you sound a bit more like yourself! Is that awful nitrous stuff wearing off?"

"It would seem so, sir."

"Jolly good!" A thought suddenly struck the brain. "Jeeves, what were the clothes that you wrapped those rocks in?"

"I deeply resented them, sir."

"What, the clothes?"

"I was not very fond of the rocks either, sir."

I sighed heavily. "Very well, Jeeves. You saved this Wooster from a terrible row with an enraged aunt and the infernal disappointment of a silver-crazed uncle. I suppose that is worth losing a few shirts in the end, eh?"

"And four ties, sir."

"And four ties."

"And two dinner jackets."

"And I suppose two dinner jackets."

"And four pairs of trousers, sir."

"Good Lord, Jeeves! Did you give away the wardrobe as well?"

"It wouldn't fit in the bag, sir."


End file.
